Mannequin
by Juliedoo
Summary: She's not supposed to be capable of feeling this way.


**-oOo-**

The stone bench is cold and hard against her bare legs. Moonlight spills like clear water onto her wan face, but Nemu isn't looking at the sky, or anything in particular.

In a rare bout of introspection, she is contemplating the enigma of self.

She is an artificial person. Concocted in a lab, born of Mayuri-sama's DNA and specified to his preferences. If it wasn't for the fact that she owns a zanpakuto (locked away, it is unnecessary) she would operate under the assumption that she does not in fact possess a soul. Fake people don't have souls.

Do they? She is unsure.

There is a precipice, and she is peering over its jagged edge.

She wonders, traitorously, what she would be like if her existence wasn't devoted to Mayuri-sama.

A blank slate stretches before her.

The unknown is terrifying. Everything must have a purpose; hers is to assist Mayuri-sama in any and all fashions. Freedom would remove that purpose, remove the validation of her continuity.

It doesn't stop her from imagining.

The sound of approaching footsteps startles her. She cranes her neck in the appropriate direction: it is the Rokubantai Taicho, Kuchiki Byakuya.

He strides calmly, at home with the night. His scarf (worth more than anything she owns, or will ever hope to own) slithers as he moves, like an incandescent snake. His reiatsu is enormous and contained. It reminds her of something sharp and fleeting. She has never been this close to it before, and is disconcerted to learn that she finds it pleasant.

Rarely does anything in life please her, so she always remembers the things that do.

_Not to self: Kuchiki-taicho emits enjoyable reiatsu. Further study of the anomaly is required to understand the sensation. _

She is confused when he pauses a few paces away from her. She keeps her eyes level with his chest: Mayuri-sama dislikes it when she looks him in the eye, and is prone to reacting adversely. She does not wish to test Kuchiki-taicho's patience on the matter.

"You are injured," he surprises her by saying. A voice like winter morning frost, low and cultured and frigid.

She does not look up. She had displeased Mayuri-sama earlier, and was punished accordingly; the puncture wound in her sternum was not significant enough to require immediate treatment from the Yonbantai, so she'd bandaged it herself. Judging by the blooming blood stain, it appears to have reopened during the last half hour.

She opens her mouth to appropriately respond, but what jumps off her tongue is not at all what she intends to say.

"What makes up an individual's soul?"

He quirks a brow; the unexpectedness of the demand has caught him off guard. Such a strange question, especially from someone like Kurotsuchi Nemu. Nevertheless, he deigns to reply.

"People are what they do. Beliefs are often secondary to actions, as it is one's actions that define a person's character. As to what makes a soul, I cannot say; it is a matter of personal opinion."

Her face is blank—void, dead, like a doll forgotten in the bottom of a toy box—but he is left with the impression that she is dissatisfied with his answer.

Of course, he thinks. Philosophy is not something concrete or factual like numbers or science, and thus she is not used to processing it.

She blinks slowly when he asks her a question.

"Tell me, Kurotsuchi-fukutaicho. What is your pride?"

She looks at him as if he has rattled off a sentence of gibberish.

"My pride?"

"Indeed."

He stares down at the young woman, drowning in her own body, and feels something close to pity.

She is silent, chewing on his words.

He turns to leave. "When you can answer that question, you shall be a step closer to answering your own."

He leaves her to sit alone on the bench, more confused than before.

But thinking.

**-oOo-**

Fallacy.

Everything she knows is a lie. Unraveling at the seams, fraying threads of reality.

Living, so much like suffocating.

She is a mannequin girl. She is anatomical. She is correct.

More than anything, she is confused.

Like a piece of driftwood instead of a person, lost to the uncertain flow of water. No control, no cognizance. His words reverberate in her ears, echoes in an empty room.

_What is your pride? _

She doesn't know. She's never been asked her opinion; she might as well not have one.

If she were to cease existing, would anyone notice? Mayuri-sama would complain of the inconvenience, but that is all; he would not grieve her. You do not grieve the hammer that pounds in the nail, or the mortar that solidifies stone. A tool is a mere object to be regarded without affection or sentiment.

_What is your pride? _

Her pride? There is no such thing.

**-oOo-**

"Nemu, you stupid girl! Step away from there."

"Yes, Mayuri-sama."

She ignores the sting of the hand print on her cheek. It is a manageable pain: she has suffered much worse in the past, and doubtless will in the future.

The laboratory is swallowed by darkness. The computer monitors flicker with unnatural light that strains her eyes. Numbers swarm like insects across the screen; she absorbs them all, processes them, files them away. She drinks knowledge like water, and her thirst is never quenched.

The only sounds are the clack of the keyboard and the humming of the machines. The specimen has screamed himself hoarse, and can no longer force a sound past its ravaged throat.

A typical day.

Mayuri-sama examines the blood samples with little interest. It appears that the only differences between arrancar and shinigami DNA are superficial; it is not a thrilling discovery, and he is rather put out with it.

Nemu finds her mind drifting. Not an unusual occurrence as of late.

A circle of thoughts.

Pride, self, purpose.

Kuchiki Byakuya.

He had willingly answered her questions before. Perhaps he will again.

**-oOo-**

The monotony of the office is tiresome (the paperwork, Renji's constant griping, the paperwork) and it is with a quiet relief that Byakuya heads home for the night.

He is rather partial to his silent strolls from the barracks to the estate. With no one but himself, he can be himself. There are no expectations, no duties to fulfill, no images to uphold, if only for a few minutes. There is a microscopic loosening of his shoulders as he finds himself relaxing to the easy companionship of the quiet spring air. The sky is low and gray, the breeze salty with the promise of rain, dusk settling like an old, worn out lover over the painfully white buildings.

She steps out from behind a corner and stands stiffly. There is an awkwardness about her; if she were normal, this is where she would find fidgeting appropriate.

Byakuya sighs quietly and resigns himself to the interruption.

He waits for her to speak.

Eventually, she does.

"Your question has puzzled me Kuchiki-taicho," she says in a very mechanical way. "How does a person possess pride or soul if their actions don't belong to them?"

He is really too tired to deal with this. But something about this uncomfortable situation (has anyone ever stopped to listen to this girl? Soaked her words in?) makes him uncharacteristically patient.

"If you are dissatisfied with your current purpose, Kurotsuchi-fukutaicho, then seek a different one." He does her the courtesy of looking her in the eye; she hesitantly meets his stare. Jade and slate. "Despite the way you came into being, you are an individual, with individual aspirations and an individual mind. You are not a possession; you do not belong to Kurotsuchi Mayuri. It is because you use his example as a crutch that you are dissatisfied with your current circumstance. Until you remove yourself from his influence you will never find that sense of _self _that you are searching for."

She is quiet, mulling over his words. Her skin is very pale, almost deathlike in the eery glow of dusk.

"You have friends in that irritant of a womens' association," he continues, striding forward once again. "People that will be willing to aid you if you need it. You are not as alone as you think, Kurotsuchi-fukutaicho."

A raindrop plops on her nose.

She watches him disappear into the tentative drizzle, and stands there for a long time. Silent. Wet. Soggy clothing drooping off her skin.

_To change myself..._

If nothing else, the endeavor will be an intriguing experiment.

_You are not as alone as you think..._

For the first time in her life, Kurotsuchi Nemu smiles. It is not a particularly pretty smile (it is too unused, sits too oddly on her face) or even a very large one (it is almost unnoticeable) but it is different, and it is there.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **For some reason, I just REALLY love this pairing. It would be subtle, and freakin' weird, but awesome. For now, this is a one shot, but if I get a good response I'll probably turn it into a chapter story. So. Thoughts?


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